I once had a relationship with an altar server. No, maybe “relationship” isn’t the right word. It’s more like we stared at each other during mass. I watched her lips suck up the blood of Christ. She watched the priest put His flesh in my mouth. We ingested the body, praying on our knees.
Which altar server was she? Because that’s important. She held the cross, God in her hands, as the priest followed her down the aisle.
I hoped every Sunday that she would turn and smile at me. But it was only after the service, while our parents were enjoying refreshments in the church basement, that she snuck me into the little chapel behind the altar.
We kissed under His bloody crown.